


Burn This City

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Pool table kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of speed porn based on <a href="http://mazarin221b.tumblr.com/post/9958584433/marielikestodraw-sweet-mother-of-god-god">this bit of conversation</a> between Marie, AQ, and me (and joined by lots of people, but that's the gist of it). And then Marie <a href="http://marielikestodraw.tumblr.com/post/9982674292/where-the-gq-photoshoot-and-a-crack-conversation">did some lovely art for it!</a></p><p>Summary: Sherlock and John have a special use for a specific piece of furniture - a billiards table. What? They play eight-ball on it. Among other things. <i>God, he’s a hazard, especially when he’s being completely obvious. The more outrageous he can be the more John loves it, as Sherlock is nothing but inventive, and dirty, and downright seductive.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn This City

When one is bored, any repetitive action can be soothing.

Like rolling a cue ball across the green baize surface of a billiards table, bouncing it off the opposite rail back into your hand. Over, and over, and over again.

John’s drink is long gone, he doesn’t smoke, and his jacket and tie are draped across the back of a large leather chair on the opposite side of the room.

And here he stands with his hip leaning against the gleaming cherry wood table.  Roll, bounce.  Roll, bounce. Christ. This better be worth whatever information Sherlock’s managed to charm from one of the guests.

The door opens and Sherlock finally swans in, a smug grin on his face and a swagger that means he deployed the most lethal weapons at his disposal – a thousand-watt smile and a melting, irresistible baritone – with success. The magnetism he can turn on at the drop of a hat is still startlingly evident, and John feels his skin prickle.

“Hello, heartbreaker,” John says, leaning against the table. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em, did you?” He’s glad Sherlock’s back; he’s been in the deserted room for over an hour, hiding out after pretending to storm off in a snit at Sherlock’s overt and outrageous flirting.

“Almost had to fetch the smelling salts,” Sherlock says, circling the table and pulling a cue from the rack. “Surprised you hadn’t started playing already.”

“Eh, wasn’t in the mood for it. Too busy wondering what you were doing to that poor woman.”

“Nothing she didn’t want done,” Sherlock retorts, arranging the balls inside the triangular rack, tightening them up with a quick flick. He lifts off the rack and gestures. “You break, since you waited.”

John smiles. “Oh, how courteous. You could have at least brought me a drink.” He leans over the table, delicately balancing his cue across the bridge of his right thumb and middle finger. He pulls the cue back and snaps it forward, the balls scattering across with a sharp crack. The solid six drops into the near corner.

“Oh, well done,” Sherlock croons in his ear, nipping at it slightly.

John shoves him away. “Stop that. No distracting me this time around. Last time you left a tear.”

“Psh. That’s the most action his billiards table had seen since he bought it.”

“Not helping. Shut up.” John tries a quick angled shot on the three and misses, badly, sending the cue ball spinning across the table.

Sherlock smirks at him and stalks around the table like a panther, reaching up to tug on his bowtie and bend his slim body over for a quick shot that sinks solidly into the far corner pocket. His tuxedo jacket pulls slightly at the button as he moves and John’s fingers twitch to undo it. Sherlock lines up again and leans extravagantly over the table for a shot on the thirteen. John rolls his eyes but still can’t stop staring when the silk trousers stretch across Sherlock’s perfect arse.  He misses, of course, as the angle was much better on the fourteen, and turns back to John with a wicked glint in his eye.

“Should have tried the fourteen,” he says innocently. “But I do so love a challenge.”  Sherlock reaches out to grasp John’s cue and bring it in front of him, sliding his fingers obscenely down the shaft. “Your shot,” he purrs.

God, he’s a hazard, especially when he’s being completely obvious. The more outrageous he can be, the more John loves it, as Sherlock is nothing but inventive, and dirty, and downright _seductive._ John leans forward and wraps a hand around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down to whisper in his ear.

“I’ll think I’ll have you over the table, Sherlock, when we’re done.  Sink into that gorgeous arse and fuck you, watch you try to walk past your conquest downstairs without a hitch.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and inhales sharply. John snags a finger in Sherlock’s bowtie and pulls, unraveling the knot and leaving the ends dangling from his collar. “My shot,” John says, pressing a kiss under Sherlock’s jaw and turning back toward the table. He tries to concentrate on his breathing, slowing his heart so he can get a steady shot across the one, then a double bank on the three.  The faster he cleans off the table, the sooner they can fuck on it.

He misses the two and the ricochet drops Sherlock’s fourteen, after all.  Sherlock grins at him, sinks the twelve and the ten in quick succession. He’s suddenly focused, tension set across his shoulders, and John realizes he’s just as eager as John himself is. When he brushes past John to get to his last shot, the touch of his body heat sets John almost vibrating with the electricity that crackles between them.

Sherlock misses the eight ball in a final, desperate shot;  John finally breaks, striding around the table to grab Sherlock and kiss him deeply, tasting the wine still on his lips and tongue. His skin is hot, a sheen of sweat forming across his cheekbones.

“Want you,” John pants, pushing Sherlock’s jacket from his shoulders as he kisses him, Sherlock pressing his lean body against John as closely as he can. They kiss for an eternity, hands opening shirts and pressing against smooth, warm skin, their legs fitting between each other’s, keeping them as close as possible.

“I don’t even want to ask if you have anything, but…do you have anything?” John says while pressing kisses to Sherlock’s collarbone.

Sherlock twists, lets John free just long enough to shove his hand in his pocket to retrieve a tiny single-use tube.  He holds it in front of John triumphantly, and John kisses him again.

“You’re brilliant, God, so fucking brilliant.” John scrabbles at Sherlock’s belt, opens up the flies, pushes everything down quickly around Sherlock’s thighs and grasps his erection with a long stroke.

They both moan at the sensation, Sherlock hard and hot in John’s hand. John slips his hand down to touch Sherlock’s balls, cradle their weight, give him the caresses and little pulls he loves.

“Yessss,” Sherlock breathes from between clenched teeth. “God, yes. Pull open your trousers, John. Let me taste you.”

John tries to comply with shaking hands, the vision of Sherlock heavy-lidded and flushed; his cock standing tall and proud and ready filling his mind, setting his senses alight. For all that John loves him, adores him and spends hours worshipping his body, sometimes his beauty is too much to take and John just _wants_ with a visceral hunger that frightens him.

He finally gets his zip down and drops his trousers and underwear to his ankles. God, he hopes Sherlock remembered to lock the door – he’d trip and go sprawling if anyone came in.

 Sherlock hikes up his trousers and drops to his knees to take John in his mouth, almost all the way down in one desperate swallow. John almost collapses from the sensation of Sherlock’s hot, soft mouth around his cock; a little suction, a little scrape of teeth, and a swirl of tongue around the head. John groans and clutches Sherlock’s hair, thrusting slightly between the twin sensations of Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock’s hands stroking the backs of his thighs. He really is tempted to stay just like this, spend himself across Sherlock’s full, red lips, but he wants to please Sherlock, too, and he knows exactly what he wants.

“Now, Sherlock,” John says. “I want you now.”

The tick of the mantel clock, a rustle of clothes, and Sherlock releases him with a reverent kiss. He stands, turns and bends over the table, hands splayed across the green surface, bending low to lie completely on his chest.  His trousers have slipped down and John pushes them off a bit more, just enough to leave him bare, but still bound around the thighs.

John squeezes out a little lube and pushes his right hand up along Sherlock’s spine as his left insinuates itself between Sherlock’s buttocks. He circles the cool lube against Sherlock’s hole, feeling the vibration from the deep groan Sherlock releases where his hand is splayed between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.  Sherlock arches his back, tipping his hips up, and John feels his body relax, the muscle memory of their previous couplings opening him quickly.

 “Tart,” John says fondly, pulling his hand back and slapping him softly on the flank.

“Just for you,” Sherlock grits out. “Get on with it already.”

John grips Sherlock’s hip with one hand and guides himself into Sherlock’s blood-hot body, the sensation wrapping around his heart, his brain, making his blood pound in his ears. “Christ, Sherlock, you feel amazing.”

“So do you.” Sherlock brings a hand back to grip John’s thigh. “Now move.”

John does. He pulls back until he’s barely inside and pushes forward again, a slow, languid slide that gains momentum the longer they rock together, Sherlock’s breath coming out in huffs as he’s shoved against the edge of the table.

John knows that he won’t last long, won’t be able to continue to balance on the knife-edge, so he tries to focus on Sherlock, pushing up on his toes to change the angle, shoving his hand under Sherlock’s hips to grasp and tug on Sherlock’s erection.

“Come for me, gorgeous, come on, feel me, feel me inside you,” John chants. Sherlock whimpers and shudders, his breaths turning hard-edged, shifting to short, sharp cries as John starts to push into him harder.  Their rhythm starts to break down as John feels himself getting closer, and before he can stop himself, he can feel his mind spiraling in to a tight awareness of Sherlock’s body around him, the sensation a compact, bright spot before it explodes into a blinding flash of pleasure. He can feel Sherlock shaking beneath him, the hand stroking Sherlock’s cock suddenly warm and slick. Sherlock clutches at John’s thigh and groans out his pleasure.

Full awareness returns with a jolt. John is draped over Sherlock’s back, everything hot except the cool silk of Sherlock’s shirt under his cheek. He kisses Sherlock’s shoulder and pulls away gently, shuffling away enough for Sherlock to stand up gingerly, straightening his bent legs and kinked spine. Sherlock leans to the side and snags a tiny towel from the cue rack to clean up a bit before getting dressed and tossing the towel in a corner of the room. John sighs and shakes his head, pulling up his own trousers and getting reasonably put back together so they can make their escape.

John turns back to see Sherlock studying the pool table.

“It appears we might not have been as careful as we should have been,” he says, and points to a deep groove in the woodwork where possibly one of Sherlock’s shirt buttons dug in under his weight and the friction of their earlier activities.

John laughs. “Probably the most action this table has seen since the last time we were here,” he says wryly.

Sherlock laughs too, and leans over to kiss John’s temple. “I admit it, it was inspired to convince Mycroft to buy a billiard table.”

“It was. Now, let’s get downstairs before we’re caught by your paramour. Mycroft would be put out if there were a scene.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, and unlocks the door.

 

Title from: Franz Ferdinand, This Fire

 


End file.
